“Things came up.”
Wyatt didn’t blink. “Mmm.”
The sound conveyed absolute disbelief. Classic Wyatt. The man had spent six years pretending he wasn’t obsessed with Narla Wright, and now he thought he was qualified to judge everyone else’s denial.
“Where’s Cal?” Hux asked, desperate to redirect.
“Video call.” Theo nodded toward the tablet propped against a beer flight at the end of the table. Cal’s face filled the screen, Dahlia visible in the background doing battle with chocolate in their Paris kitchen. “Time zones are a bitch.”
“I’m only staying for an hour,” Cal rumbled through the speakers. “Dahlia’s got a training session at 4:00 AM, and I’m not letting her walk home alone.”
“It’s two blocks,” Dahlia called from somewhere off-screen.
“Two blocks in a foreign city at four in the morning.”
“Paris isn’t a foreign city, it’s Paris.”
“Same thing.”
Beck slid a beer across the table toward Hux. Dark, hoppy, exactly what he needed. “Drink. You look like you need it.”
“Rough week?”
“Something like that.”
The lie tasted sour. The week hadn’t been rough. The week had been torture. Three days since Lunaria Reed had marchedinto his office with her sharp tongue and demands about archive access. Days of finding excuses to drive past the Celestial Gardens on his way to lunch.
“Where’s Delos?” Leo asked, scanning the brewery. “Didn’t his date end an hour ago?”
“About that.” Aero spoke for the first time, his ancient voice carrying a thread of dry amusement that would have been unreadable on anyone else. The storm dragon sat at the end of the booth, his massive frame somehow folded into the cramped space. “I received a rather frantic text message approximately forty-five minutes ago.”
“From Delos?”
“Indeed. The content was... alarming.”
On cue, the brewery door slammed open.
Delos Gefen stumbled through looking like a man who’d seen things. Terrible things. His usually immaculate hair was disheveled, his shirt half-untucked, and there was what appeared to be soup on his collar.
“I need alcohol,” he announced to the table. “All of it. Whatever you have.”
Beck waved to the bartender. “The usual?”
“Triple it.”
Delos collapsed into the seat next to Aero, his head dropping into his hands. For a long moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched, loaded with anticipation.
Finally, Beck cracked. “So. How was the date?”
Delos raised his head. His face was haunted.
“She cried.”
“Okay—”
“Into her soup.”
“That’s—”
